


Your Way

by brokenEisenglas



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Cap_Ironman Holiday Gift Exchange 2018, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, alternate universe setting, alternating pov, romcom narrative, strangers on the subway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 07:10:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17075735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenEisenglas/pseuds/brokenEisenglas
Summary: We've been riding the same train for nearly three years now... And I don't even know his name.





	Your Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PjCole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PjCole/gifts).



We’ve been riding the same train for years. Though, I’m sure if you asked him, he wouldn’t even recognize who I am. Not that anyone on here actually knows who I am. I’m not important or anything. Not a big name or something like that. It’s just that, well… He never looks up.

Ever.

He’s always looking at some document, or his phone, or a tablet, or _something_. We’ve been on the same train for almost three years now, and, I don’t think he’s ever even _looked_ at me.

I can’t say the same.

My name is Steve Rogers. I’m a senior artist with QualiPic Abroad, an internationally acclaimed graphics and design company specializing in mass media marketing and campaigning for industries such as Hammer Ltd., Doom Creations, and our largest client Stark International, the largest engineering and design company in the United States, and second only to Mandarin Labs on the international scale. I have had a hand in making some of the largest brands in the world. Speaking with some of the biggest names in the business…

You’d think I could handle one introduction.

But, I can’t. Damn near three years of daily commutes and I can’t even get the courage to speak to one guy, one _stranger_ , or ask his name. I see him _every_ day and I can’t even see if he’ll take a second to look my way.

I’m a coward.

And, he’s gorgeous.

Fuck my life.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

He’s been making this commute for years now. He knows this trains schedule damn near by heart, so, when five minutes pass drop-off/pick-up have passed, he tries to conceal his displeasure. It’s his fault really for choosing public transit. There’s always the chance of delay. Always the possibility of closed or overfull cars, of drunk people or sick kids. He _chooses_ this ride, even when he can afford cabs. Hell, he could have his own chauffeur!

But, neither of those options has _him._

They’ve been riding the same line at the same times, morning and night, for nearly three years now. Ever since that first unfortunate— _fortunate?_ —commute in February of ’09, Tony Stark has willingly chosen to ride the public tube for one singular purpose:

Big, blond, buff and beautiful.

Of course, outfits change daily, but, Tony swears that the guy wears nearly the same accessories every day. Brown leather jacket over the plaid button-down of the day, with a pair of mid-priced designer jeans, black or brown flats, and a fucking Brooklyn Dodgers baseball cap…

The Dodgers!

Tony doesn’t watch baseball. He doesn’t… or, he didn’t.

He definitely didn’t start just to have something to strike up a conversation about. Definitely not a conversation he’s tried to rehearse a thousand times in his head.

_“Dodgers, huh?”- “Yeah. Problem?” -“No, nope. Unless you count not knowing shit about baseball.”_

Yeah. That’d go over well. So, Tony avoids thinking about that scenario.

Then, the guy always has a notepad of some sort in hand. Tony’s noticed with time when the book has filled because it’s been changed, but the guy always has one. Is always writing, or doodling. He could be drawing. Tony has often wanted to lean over and look. Sometimes he thinks the guy is using the notepad as a distraction not from the ride but from Tony. That maybe he’s doodley-doing in order to avoid Tony.

It’s been nearly three years since that disgustingly fateful commute, and they _still_ haven’t said a single word to each other.

Tony _definitely_ thinks it’s at least twelve percent a distraction from him.

He really wants to throw something.

Life isn’t fair.

So, now, standing on this dingy platform, awaiting this late train, Tony cannot help but feel like he should at least take a chance to talk to the guy. They’re both standing here waiting for the late bus together. Surely they should speak? They practically know each other, even if they haven’t said a single word to one another. Or, looked at each other.

Well, Tony has looked. How could he not? The guy wears jeans so tight that Tony feels sympathy for the threads over his thighs! Muscles like those, you can’t _not_ need to send a prayer or twenty to a god who doesn’t exist for a chance to lick your way—

The speakers in the station squeal and fritz before an announcer’s voice crackles, “Ladies and gentlemen, there has been a delay on southbound 42 due to train traffic. We apologize for any inconvenience. Thank you for your patience.”

Wonderful. Stuck waiting in a subway station late at night with few people around and Happy a twenty minute call away, the sexiest man alive standing not feet away, and a spine of custard, he can’t believe his luck. What a way to end the day.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

It was an icy February morning when I remember seeing him stumble onto the car. Wavy jet black hair stuck to wet olive skinned forehead while perfectly manicured hands shook out the dripping sleeves of a grey suit blazer. Underneath, a black button-down clings to toned abdominals, and Mary, Mother of, oh my, please, I plead…  Because he bends over and already tight wet pants pull even tighter and he’s trying to squeeze the dripping hems of his pants out while on this public car.

This jammed packed full car.

I got lucky. Or, as lucky as someone with a boot cast can be, I guess. Someone had offered to swap their seat with me so I didn’t have to stand, which I appreciate even to today. Which, then made it so that I happened to have a seat near the door.

Again, lucky me.

He comes blazing onto this train, flustered and frustrated, cheeks red and hands shaking cold, dripping water everywhere, and while everyone else seems to resent his presence, I can’t. I can’t because I’m staring. I remember it.

He’s dripping wet and soaked through, and the decent part of me wants to offer to help him, give him my jacket or try to find something to dry him off, but I can’t because, I’m staring and I can’t think straight.

I want him.

I want to talk to him. To ask him who he is, where he’s from, where he’s going. Can I buy you a drink? Do you like Italian? Are you free Friday night?

But, I can’t. Because my tongue is stuck and the words won’t come, and then other people are boarding the train and I can’t get a clear view of him and there’s too many people and shouting is rude.

I just want to know his name.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The seating area is located further back off the tracks. It’s already late at night. There are lights that flicker and fade intermittently. Graffiti decorates the walls and gum tacks the floors, and there’s an odd smell coming from one of the trash cans about eighteen feet away that Tony hopes is normal and not something worth calling police over.

The station, despite its location, is sketchy as hell, and he can’t help but hope that tonight isn’t the night that anyone tries to rob him, because, it would be tonight. Tony knows that he isn’t alone. _He_ is here, too. Big, muscled, and intimidating, Tony can feel him hovering somewhere behind him, so, he shouldn’t be too worried. They’re the only two currently waiting on the train, the others who were on the platform having immediately decided to find an alternate route home. If it’s only going to be a few more minutes, he thinks it might just be worth the wait, to have the extra time to sneak glances at the not-really-but-definitely-a stranger he’s been pining over for a while now.

But, if someone else does show up…

He’ll give it a few minutes before calling Happy.

Shrugging his bag up his shoulder, he scans the seats. Somewhere not close to a trashcan… or covered in questionable substances. The seat he chooses is far enough away from the trash to not be too bothered by it while also being in a lit enough spot to not easily be spooked by passing or creeping shadows. Sitting down, he fumbles his Starkpad, juggling it and bag and phone. He really hopes no one mugs him. He has all of his SI equipment and notes and—

“This seat taken?”

 _Holy shit_.

—he’s right there.

The joke would be funny if his damaged heart wasn’t trying to jump its way out of his chest.  He _knew_ he was there; it shouldn’t be a surprise, but didn’t expect him to _speak to him_! His breathing picks up and he drops his phone with a _clack clatter_ on the floor, and he’s trying to stop the rest of his stuff from falling, and a large pale hand has reached down already and is trying to give back the glowing device, and Tony can’t quite get himself back together because, that was close. Really close. And, there’s a person in his vision, and…

His jaw slackens. Blue. Crystal clear blue framed by lashes like gold threads. The plaid navy button-down contrasts the color such that his eyes practically glow. Dusky blond strands fall over slightly crinkled forehead. He’s looking at Tony with a mix of concern and amusement. Amusement? Is this funny?

Tony doesn’t think it’s funny.

The guy must have asked something else, but Tony wasn’t listening. Too busy trying to calm down, and looking.

That shirt fits… tight. Solid schmedium. Pulls nicely over _very_ fit pectorals. The jacket must hug his biceps fairly nice because he thinks he can see those, too. And, holy shit, this guy works out, because, those _legs_. He’s looked at his legs before, but, bent down like this? Crouching in front of Tony as if he’s got something to say to him, to give back?

Oh, right.

“You sure you doing okay?”

_Say something._

“Uh…” Lovely. Very articulate. “Yeah. Yes. ‘M fine. Wasn’t expecting,” a free hand gestures to the blond kneeling in front of him. He takes the moment to take the phone back from the other man, and if he brushes his fingers lightly over his hand, well, that’s just coincidence.

“Yeah. I could tell.” The guy’s laugh is lovely. A gentle rumble. “So, mind if I sit with you? Looks like we might be waiting a while, and, well--”

“Sure. Take a seat.”

“Yeah?”

Tony thinks about his phone and that text to Happy that he could send. He _could_ get them a ride sooner. They’re heading the same way. They must live fairly close to one another. Then, he thinks about how weird that might be, and decides, _just wait_.

Tony smiles. “Yeah.”

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

I’ve gotten into this habit, of, um, writing. About the train. About… him.

He’s ridden the public transit almost every day since that first day in February. It’s gotten to the point that, if he’s not on the platform on time, I feel like I should ask the driver if we can wait an extra minute or two. I never do, and he’s only ever not shown on three occasions, and two other times that I wouldn’t know because I wasn’t there.

When he’s late, he runs up like a whirlwind of anxious energy and electronics. He’s always got something out, earplugs in. Makes me worry. News is always posting something or another about computers and brain damage or headphones and brain cancer.

I don’t believe these’ll happen…

But…

What if?

I’ve thought up some ideas about what I think he does, at least. Years of riding together, you better have noticed something or another by now.

So, my first guess is—

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

“—that you’re a broker.”

Steve smiles as Tony giggles. They’ve struck-up a conversation in the last few minutes as they’ve been waiting. They’ve passed the polite exchanges of noticing one another a time or two, neither even hinting at how they’ve gone out of their way to make sure that they always travel at the same time as the other.

_“I’m Steve.”_

_“Tony.”_

_“Nice to meet you, Tony.” Steve smiles easily. He’s bright, and Tony thinks he might be a natural flirt. Surely that isn’t interest. Is it interest? Is Steve interested?_

Now, they're essentially playing a game.

 

_“What do you do?” Steve had asked. He had looked anxiously curious._

_Tony being Tony, responded, “Anything. Lots of things,” the innuendo both appalling blatant and latently transparent._

_Steve had been oblivious._

_“I actually have a few ideas.”_

“A… stock broker?” Tony asks.

The brokerage shouldn’t be as funny as Tony thinks it is.

“Yes. My first guess is that you are a broker. But, from your response,” Steve hums, “not so much anymore. Probably should mark that one off the list.”

Tony giggles more. He’s having a little bit of a hard time collecting himself. But, Steve is smiling. He knows he has a stupid laugh. Rhodey has definitely let him know how conspiratorial or deranged it makes him seen out of context. God, Steve’s going to think he’s a mess.

Hopefully a hot mess.

A mess he might be interested in making messier…

Tony gasps, clears his throat, and blinks. Control. Calm. Collected.

A fucking broker.

He smiles even harder. ~~~~

“Nope. Not a broker. Nice try though. Mind telling me why?”

_Please, tell me more._

“Sure.”

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

He doesn’t work on Wall Street. We’re too far away for that to be it. But, broker is my first guess. He’s always on those tech things of his: tablet, phone, laptop (on occasion). The occasional file folder makes its way to his lap sometimes, too.

Dum-Dum had this brother of his who worked the Stock Exchange. Said he was always working, sheets and numbers all spread out around him.

That and the leather side bag and obviously expensive suits, he’s making at least decent money, so… why not the stocks?

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

“So, my workaholism and suits?”

As Steve began his explanation he’s pulled out one of his little journal pads from the canvas bag. He’s flipped to the relevant page, having just finished reading a snippet of the journal entry.

Tony loves it.

They’ve moved to sit close together on the seats in the waiting area. It’s been a few minutes and the time for departure hasn’t been announced yet, and, at this rate, they could be here all night. Maybe he should text Happy.

Maybe Steve would be interested in riding along.

Tony doesn’t think that’s necessarily a bad idea.

“And your bag.”

Steve is warm, in personality and in general. His smile could make the sun rise, and he _literally_ radiates heat.

Tony, wearing only his blazer, is a little jealous. A shiver runs down his spine.

“A little presumptuous of you.” He rubs his hand up and down his bicep to rub a little heat into the fabric. Steve’s proximity doesn’t help. “Well, you’re definitely not a Sherlock Holmes, but, I’d say it was a decent try.”

Steve is sharp, Tony has noted. He’s funny and quick when he wants to be. He’s detail oriented and considerate, and while his first guess was rather blasé, it’s not too bad for someone who’s talking to practically a complete stranger.

“Oh, there are more,” Steve waves the little notepad he’s been carrying around with him. “I’ve been watching you since the first time I saw you and we’ve been riding this line for years.”

A complete stranger he’s been looking at for years.

The surprise in Steve’s eyes when he realizes what he’s said has Tony ignoring his own embarrassing blush. Steve’s skin alights beautifully. Red fills his cheeks and crawls down his neck, and Tony wonders if it keeps going, down a sculpted chest to dusky nipples and—

Steve clears his throat and looks around as though caught out. He looks like he’s struggling with words, trying to backtrack, to apologize. To correct the super weird creepy vibe that could possibly be construed from that sentence because that really could be seen as a bad thing, definitely a ‘not good’ thing.

Tony decides he can ease his suffering.

“I was thinking journalist. Or, maybe a camera man.”

Success.

“I’m sorry?”

If unable to save it, then change it.

“For you. That’s my first guess.”

Steve’s looking at him like he can’t believe Tony.

“Really?”

Rude.

“Yeah,” he nods, a little defensive. “I mean, if we’re going on looks alone, you’ve got it. At least for, I don’t know, community stories. Brown jacket, plaid shirt. Decent jeans and daytime dress shoes, why not? Makes you approachable. Likable. Most people might find it easier to talk to you instead of some regular old Anchor Man.”

Steve’s eyes soften and the way he chuckles and shakes his head, Tony’s defensiveness eases and he thinks he may just really like this game, because that’s what it is. Or, what it has become. A game.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

A lawyer. Probably patent or copyright law.

He’s nearly always dressed to the nines, has all his papers and tech. So, same premise as before, except I’ve done a little bit of researching. I’ve looked up some other possible careers that have requirements for his normal wardrobe.

Looking back at what I’ve written, that sounds creepy. I need a better way to describe that. I… is that creepy? Surely not.

Um, what I turned up was a whole list of other possible careers from banks, to stocks, to public speakers, and lawyers…

I guess he could be a lawyer.

Would also explain the overwhelming amounts of paperwork he seems to always have.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

“I mean, it fits, too.” He’s really enjoying this.

If only the chill hadn’t set in.

Tony’s started intermittently tremoring through the conversation.

He’s also noticed that Steve has noticed.

And, Steve looks like he wants to do something but doesn’t know if he should.

“I could give you a hint?” He asks. His left hand rubs his thigh again.

Steve’s eyes squint and he nods his head.

“You could borrow my jacket.” He says it like it’s a given. And, in all honesty, Tony would give anything at this time to have some extra heat. Especially this man’s extra heat.

Everywhere.

 _All over me_.

He shivers for a completely different reason this time.

Next to him, Steve is removing his freshly warmed jacket. He helps Tony pull it up over his shoulders, zips the zipper, and pulls the collar in close.

Tony melts.

Steve stares. His blue eyes look nearly black with how dilated they are.

The lights above the seating area flicker. There’s no one else around. The time is getting even later and the station hasn’t made another announcement. Tony thinks that maybe they’ve forgotten that he and Steve are even here.

And, Steve is looking at him like he wants to devour him.

“Ride home with me.”

_Please ride home with me._

“Please.”

Steve swallows and nods.

Tony calls Happy.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

I’ve made some other guesses along the way, too.

Maybe his profession isn’t so easily discerned.

So, I’ve been looking closer.

He’s got scars and calluses on his hands. From a little distance, they look perfectly maintained, manicured to perfection. But, the scars stay.

I’ve seen him with what look like little blisters on his arms or flash burns on his cheeks.

One day, I even noticed that his suit smelled like burnt wiring and metal shavings. That was a memorable day. The closest we’ve sat since riding together. He’d walked so close and the evening train was packed, and we had to stand near to each other, and I could…

He smelled like a machine shop.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

They’re in the car together with enough room for Jesus between them and Tony wants more than anything right now to put the privacy divider up and slide down the front of Steve’s body, unzip his pants, and reach in and—

“You have a workshop.”

The comment surprises him.

“Or, you work in a workshop. Sometimes.” Steve’s looking at him with a look of considerate hunger. “My pal, Buck, worked in a machine shop for a while. Welding, wiring. Smelled like burnt metal and electricity.”

That look heats Tony to his core.

“Do you… work for Stark International?”

Damn, he’s sexy.

Tony leans back in the car and smiles. The jacket opens as he spreads his legs, open suggestion. Request, really.

The way Steve’s eyes roam his body, fingers twitching, he knows the other man wants to reach out and touch. To do more than just touch. But, Tony has another guess.

They’ve spent the last three years observing each other. Playing mental guessing games. And, Tony thinks he might have another idea.

They work in the same area. Ride the same train. Steve carries a canvas bag filled with inking supplies. He has his doodle pad and a laptop he sometimes uses. He has an eye for style, from what Tony can tell about how Steve perceives the world, even if he doesn’t dress himself the way he admires. Because, that’s what Tony’s found himself feeling.

Admired.

“My turn, actually.” Breathing deep, Tony practically moans on the release, “Draw me like one of your French girls?”

Steve’s already moving, quick and predatory, as the divider window goes up, and Tony knows it’s gonna be a good night.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

I was right about the shop. It was a bit of a stretch on my part, I think. Man with suits like that, you wouldn’t expect him to do the work that leaves the scars that it does…

And, honestly, I don’t know how I didn’t see it before. I look at him now and it’s obvious.

Tony Stark. Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist.

Well, playboy-no-more.

It’s been three months since we were waylaid at the station. The night was a great one. We played our guessing game, as Tony would say. Then, Tony had his personal driver come pick us up and drive us back to his penthouse apartment.

I’d give all the more salacious and obscene details, but, I think I’d rather keep those to myself. A man has to have his secrets. Not that we’re a secret, because we aren’t. Tony’s got a lot of eyes on him more often than not. Paparazzi up his ass all the time.

Unfortunately for them, that’s a reserved space.

I’ve even got a few plans for that as—

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

“What’re you writing about now, Captain Handsome?”

They’ve started riding with Happy to work together instead of taking the subway like they had before. With the reveal of Tony’s new ‘boo thing’ having made its rounds in the media, they’ve found it harder to suffer the public transit together on a daily basis.

What a shame, Tony thinks.

The smile creeps onto Steve’s face as he writes a few more lines in his journal. He’s damned gorgeous and a hellion to boot, Tony’s learned. Honorably discharged Captain in the Army forces, trained in four styles of martial arts, top strategist in his ranks, a physical trainer in his spare time, and a career artist, he’s a composite of the unexpected.

And, when he smiles like that, Tony really doesn’t know what to expect.

“My Frenchman.”

Sexy mothe—

“Italian, darling.” Tony drawls. He sashays onto his lover’s lap, and whispers, “Let me remind you of the difference.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays! I hope it's to your liking!


End file.
